I'm on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation ....you can hum the rest.

This blog goes back in time a bit. Sometimes I have to let them bake in the oven for a while...

It’s now been almost four weeks since we first dropped anchor in St. Maarten. The original plan was to stay there for three to five days and then head east to St. Barts and then south west to St. Kitts. In an ordered world, we wouldn’t still be in St. Martin (different spelling, we’re now on the French side). In the sailing world, a plan is something you continually adjust until the result has almost no similarities with its beginning.

While in Simpson Bay, we discovered that our boat had made and offering to Poseidon in the form of our VHF antenna. We’ve had an ongoing issue with the antennae which sits precariously at the very top of the mast. The antenna was a three foot long fiberglass whip attached to a three inch long stainless steel threaded pipe. The pipe sits in a small aluminum fork bracket and then two hex nuts are screwed from the bottom to tighten the whole thing up against the bracket; all at a height of 70 feet. We were having a problem keeping the antennae tight in its bracket. Funny thing is, while making our crossing to St. Maarten, we both heard something clattering across the deck in the middle of the night. We searched for the source of the noise but couldn’t see anything amiss. It wasn’t until we were through the Dutch side drawbridge and trying to use our VHF that we discovered the gift Eyes had made to the Sea God. Apparently we could transmit just fine but were totally deaf to the marina’s responses. After a good dozen transmissions from us of, “Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?”...which we now know they don’t like so much, they were surely saying back, “Yes, yes, for the love of Christ, yes WE CAN HEAR YOU NOW!” Eventually, for the sake of their own sanity, they sent someone out in a dingy to let us know that they we’re quite aware of our approach. I guess they don’t have the same commercials we do.

We successfully docked the boat in a slip and started our countless trips to and from Budget Marine, a boater’s version of Home Depot. The main similarity between the two is that as soon as you get there, you realize you forgot to bring whatever piece you were trying to match and as soon as you get back, you realize what you forgot to buy. Needless to say, we were not only on a first name basis with our personal customer service agent, Telluthia Cotton, (who weighed as much as a passing thought) we knew the rest of the sales staff and about a half dozen boaters who happened to be caught in the same Budget Marine forgetting cycle we were caught in.

With the new VHF antenna in hand, I strapped myself into our Boson’s chair, clipped myself to the shackle attached to the main halyard and waited for Jim to hoist me up the mast. A Boson’s chair is basically a cloth chair, kind of like a hammock you sit in. Ours was a gift from the Colorado Little’s and is a deluxe version. A deluxe Boson’s chair is one that will hold you in even if you’re turned upside down. I don’t think I’ll try that out. I’m weighing in at around 170 pounds these days so with the aid of a few pulleys and a winch, Jim started cranking me up our 70 foot mast. One of the tasks at hand was to retie the bowline knot at the top of the mast that secures the main halyard. Those of you paying attention will notices that a few sentences ago, I told you I was clipping my Boson’s chair to the shackle attached to the main halyard. Dicey. Jim cranked me up the mast, all the while I was yelling back down, “Come on you wimp, faster, faster.” In retrospect, antagonizing the person in charge of keeping you from falling 70 feet isn’t the smartest idea. My excuse is that I was giddy with the anxiety caused by attaching myself to a line that had a potentially faulty knot. A pint of sweat later, Jim had me to the top of the mast and I began my chores. I immediately secured myself with three separate lines, untied and retied the bowline knot.

We knew that the main halyard had some wear because, like the good sailors we are, we had the foresight to have our rigging inspected before we left Tortola. One of the faults the inspector, Mr. Thomas, found in the rigging while he was at the top of our mast was a worn main halyard cause by chaffing against the topping lift. He was kind enough to move the halyard in order to stop the chaffing. Interestingly enough, while he was in his own Boson’s chair, at the top of our 70 foot mast, you’d have thought he’d remove the chaffed part of the line and tie a new knot…not.

After taking care of the halyard, I installed the new VHF antennae, inspected all of the other lines and electrical equipment and then stopped working and looked at where I was. I was suspended from a 5/8th inch line 70 feet above the deck of our boat. The 360 degree view of the harbor was incredible. From that vantage point, I could appreciate not only the size of the dock in the marina around me but also the size of Simpson Bay. Half of the bay is French and the other half is Dutch. Both sides have their own drawbridge and those two entryways are the only water passage into the lagoon. The eastern shore is met by a sheer slope of the towering mountain ridge. To the south, I could clearly see the whole town and the road leading up the mountain toward Phillipsburg. My western view showed me bay outside of the Dutch drawbridge and to the north I could see the French town of Marigot. It was a beautifully humbling view that once again illustrated for me the true size of the boat we are on. We’re a pretty large boat in the marina, just a spot in the lagoon and I imagine, as you pan out, not even a speck in the ocean.

Row, row, row your boat.

First, I'd like to thank those of you who leave comments on the blog. We love the feedback and also love hearing how everyone is doing back home - so keep the emails coming!

Here we are at the beginning of September, just over two months into our travels. We're currently sitting in Jolly Harbour Marina on Antigua's west coast and have been enjoying this island for a little over a week. The last you heard from us, we were in St. Martin, about to start heading south. Well, we've made it about 120 miles so far.

To give you a timeline, we left St. Martin on August 18 and headed south to St. Barts. It was a great day for sailing with clear blue skies, a nice breeze and just enough big puffy clouds to give us something to look at. The trip was only about 18 miles from where we were in Anse du Marcel. Our destination was Gustavia which is the main port in St. Barts. For those of you who haven't visited St. Barts - its atmosphere is quite a bit different from where we've been so far.

Not only is Gustavia's main harbor right out of a picture book, but all the store fronts in the town look like they'd been plucked right from Madison Avenue in New York City!

While in Gustavia, we had to get fuel for the dinghy. We were nearly out and when I say nearly, I'm kind of stretching the truth. The only place to get fuel for a boat was the commercial dock, which was about 1/2 mile from our boat. When I got up in the morning, I decided to zip over to the fuel dock and get that chore out of the way. I jumped in the dinghy and headed to the commercial dock. I ran out of gas 10 feet from the dock. Luckily, I had oars so I could row myself the remaining 10 feet.

I found myself on a commercial dock with lots of containers and machinery. I was in a little 9 foot inflatable boat wanting about 6 gallons of the island's best unleaded. Oh, and I've not mentioned that "Mon Français est très mauvais" or for those that don't "parlez", my French is very bad. I manage to find the main office and between my trying to pronounce "gasoline" with a French accent and wildly gesticulating my arms, the very nice and patient French guy understood my goal. He said in broken English, "you want gas." "Yes! Yes!", I respond. Then I saw it coming, I knew what he was going to say next. "No gas." I looked from him to the pumps and then back to him, pretending not to understand such a simple phase in my native tongue, raise an eyebrow and waited. I don't know what I expected him to say, whether it was, "Just joking...unleaded OK?", or..."I have a little stash of gas here behind the counter, for you, I can spare a few liters." What he did say was, "Pumps no work."

Yes, it's true. I'd used all the remaining gas we had in the tank to get the dinghy to a dock that had pumps and had fuel, but couldn't get the fuel where I wanted it. I managed to ask in very poor French where the nearest gas station was. "Airport!" was the kind Frenchman's response.

I'm sure you all know what happened next because of the title of this blog. I had to "Row, row, row my boat" back the 1/2 mile to our big boat. For those of you who didn't crew in college, or don't enjoy a skiff out on the river - rowing is a LOT of work. Plus, you can't see where you're going. Frequently I would find myself rowing to a destination that I had no intention of visiting

Now this is Rick adding a side note: I've seen Jim at the gym, sitting on a rowing machine, happy as a clam in sand. He gets no sympathy from me.

Well, after about an hour I made it back. The rest of that day...and I'm not kidding, was us on a quest for gas. St. Barts only has two gas stations. One is near the airport and I have no idea where the other one is. Our first order of business was to either take a cab or rent a car and drive to the airport. I have to confess, that part of me was excited about visiting another airport. I have an obsession with airplanes, so any excuse will do - and after all, this wasn't an excuse.

We boarded the dinghy and "row, row, rowed" ourselves to the dock. Fortunately, it's not far... only about a 5 minute row max. We then inquired about the cost of a cab. As it turned out, we could rent a car for less money - only about $40/day. So we chose that option. By this time, it was about lunch time. We quickly learned a very important fact about French island culture. Nearly all non-restaurant businesses close at noon and some reopen later in the afternoon (remember, it's off-season). Since we had to wait until 2pm for the car rental place to open, we decided to grab a bit at a restaurant that had a great view of the harbour. I love the way the French can teach us how to enjoy one another more by taking time to have lunch.

Anyway, I digress (the American returns). After lunch we rented a car. As a side note, cars in St. Barths for $40/day aren't nearly as nice as cars in St. Martin for $25/day. But that's another story. We were happy to be in a car and drove the 10 minutes to the airport. We got to the gas station and as it turns out, closed between 12:00 and 2:30pm. What time was it? Only 2:15! Good lord man - what are we to do for the next 15 minutes! (again, the American - or maybe it's just my OCD).

Long story short (I know, it's already long). We got the gas and were "liquid" again with dinghy fuel. We drove back to the boat and hooked up the tank and happily polluted the air while motoring 2 minutes back to the boat :)

Are you wondering how long this is going to continue? I started by saying that I would tell you about how we got to Antigua and I've just most of this blog telling you about getting gas.

We left Gustavia a few days later and headed north to Anse du Colombier, a beautiful little cove with a long white-sand beach that isn't accessible by any road. We were there with 2-3 other boats and had a great time.

We snorkeled! We've not had much of a chance to be in the water since we left Tortola, and we were in heaven. The sunset set in the west (as always) and we had a clear view.

On our last day before leaving for Antigua, we took a hike from Anse du Colombier to Anse des Flamandes. Our goal was to find a nice place for breakfast and/or coffee. For those that don't speak French, an "Anse" literally translates as "hanger." I take that to mean cove.

This hike wasn't for the feeble hearted. Cooper and Coco went with us - and at times even they seemed a bit taken aback by the sheer drop. Our effort was totally rewarded when we stumbled across a small hotel with a restaurant that served a very good French-style continental breakfast. They even had a bowl of water for the dogs. I love the French.

Once we'd hiked back, we packed everything up and headed back to Gustavia. We needed to make sure we were full on water - and after the incident with the fuel, we thought it a good idea to get an early start. There were no troubles getting the water and around 3:30 in the afternoon, we departed the lovely island of St. Barthelamy for Antigua. During the journey, we'd pass Saba, St. Eustatis, St. Kitts, Nevis and then arrive on Antigua.

For those that are wondering why we're passing all these islands, I have two words for you: "Hurricane season." We are only taking extended stays at islands that have good hurricane holes - and those that we were passing, while beautiful, aren't known for helping sailboats weather a storm.

We leave St. Barths around 4pm in the afternoon bound for Antigua. I'd been up since about 6am, so we decided that Rick would take the first watch and I would do the graveyard shift. If you're not familiar with how to sail at night, someone always needs to be awake to keep watch. Basically, the guy on duty ensures that we don't run into any passing cruise ships or freighters. After all, we're only a 41 foot catamaran and don't always register with those on the "watch" of these other ships.

I headed down to the stateroom with the nubbins around 8pm. We keep the dogs locked in the stateroom when we're at sea at night. If they were to go overboard in the dark there would be no hope finding them. I had been in bed about 5 minutes when Rick called me to come back to the cockpit...we'd hit a squall. Now, we are both very diligent about checking the weather several times before leaving on a passage. This time was no different. While in Gustavia earlier that day we both had checked the 4-5 different sources of weather that we have. We knew the squalls might happen, but this was a first for us.



I'm back on deck in my shorts wondering what on earth was going on. Rick told me the winds had risen to around 25 knots sustained with gusts up to 35. When I'd gone to bed, 10 minutes before, we were seeing winds between 10-12 knots. We immediately took action to decide how to best weather this storm. However, the dogs weren't locked in the stateroom anymore...I had neglected to close the door when I sprinted back to deck.

The moment seemed to last forever. Rick asked about the dogs and I told him they were inside. He went below to find them and told me that he couldn't find Cooper, but had located Coco. Of the two, Coco would be the one to worry more about because if it were possible, she would attach herself to Rick. Rick continued to look while I became more and more frantic at the helm. I had just about accepted the fact that the little black cocker spaniel was not going to be found on board when Rick said he had her. She had wedged herself under the desk in the office. The fact that it was night time and Cooper is black....enough said.


We managed to get through the squall and decided that it would be better to have less main sail out in case it happened again. With only one of us on watch, it would be easier to tolerate any upcoming squalls if we didn't have as much exposed sail area. Just like when you take an umbrella with you, by putting two reefs we managed to weather any other passing squalls.

We arrived in Jolly Harbor, Antigua the next morning around 8am - and jolly it was!! We'd made it to the end of this leg of our journey. We've had a great time while on Antigua - and also had quite a few more experiences worthy of blogs. We'll try to get some of them down in the next week.

We plan to leave on Sunday, Sep 9th for either Martinique or Guadeloupe. We're on the fence. Martinique gets us south faster, yet the hurricanes have been in the south. Additionally, Guadeloupe is only about 10-11 hours away which we can do by the light of day. Martinique is over 24 hours away which would mean over night sailing. We'll let you know what we decide.

In the meantime, we hope all is well with all of you. Be well and stay safe.

Someone’s knocking at the door; somebody’s ringing the bell…

Jim and I are anchored in Carlisle Bay, a small bay off the south, southwestern side of Antigua. There’s a tropical depression blowing westward just to our south and because of that, the winds have stirred up the water in the bay so the visibility underwater is only about 10-15 feet.

We jumped off the back of the boat for a little swim and headed toward the south side of the bay to check out the fish in the gloom.

Jim was swimming about ten feet in front of me when I noticed a small school of Sergeant Majors, some Goat Fish and a few Wrasses bobbing in the currents caused by the small waves lapping the rocks. I was only in about 8 feet of water so I was able to see the bottom of sand, rocks and grass pretty clearly. Among the rocks, I spied a cluster of white shells starkly standing out against the background of brownish sand. With poor visibility making it difficult to see far, anything slightly unusual was good cause for closer inspection.

The shells were arranged along the opening of a very old empty Queen Conch shell, long since inhabited by its maker and clearly showing all the signs of the circle of life in the sea. Growing on its top was a coating of algae and sea moss that made it look like it was wearing a sweater. A few barnacles and small sponges were using the shell as their base, adding to the transformation of this once colorful and elegantly curved shell from clean, purposeful beauty to a new kind of opportunistic, utilitarian usefulness.

As I pulled a small scallop shell from the opening, an interesting thing happened. Something pulled the shell back toward the old conch. Because I found the shell on its back, I guessed it was not the new home of a hermit crab, and knew, again from its position and also from its condition, that there wasn’t a conch inside. I snatched a few more shells from their resting place and exposed a single eye looking back at me. I waited and within 60 seconds, a small tentacle snaked out, grabbed one of the shells I had removed and gently put it back in its place. I’d found my favorite of all sea creatures. I’d found an Octopus.

The Caribbean Octopus is a timid little creature with some absolutely amazing qualities. It can change, not only the color of its skin, but also its skin’s texture. It is almost completely made of soft tissue except for a parrot-like beak which it uses to open its primary souse of food, mollusks and crustaceans. An Octopus can squeeze its body through any hole that is larger than the size of its beak and when in danger, can produce an ink cloud that acts as a diversion.

I lifted the Conch shell and move it to a rock ledge about 2 feet under the water’s surface. Keep in mind that this Octopus had stuffed his little self up into the spiral of the shell and absolutely no amount of tugging was going to get him out. I also didn’t want to scare the little fella, however, in retrospect, I suspect I failed at that goal when I removed the first piece of his shell armor.

I lifted the shell so the Octopus was just above the water. Now before you go thinking I’m an Octopus torturer, let me explain. The National Zoo has an invertebrate exhibit that contains a few Octopi. While on a visit there, the Octopus lady told us that if the lids to the little Octopus condominiums are not weighted down with bricks, the crafty little creatures will make a mad dash for the drains in the floors! Little do they know that all they’d get would be a trip into the DC sewer system which, as I’m sure most of you know occasionally explodes. Before they'd know it, they could be shot through a manhole cover in Georgetown and right onto the plate of a tourist having lunch at a sidewalk café. Calamari al la Adrian Fente.

Anyway, there I was, trying to coax Pi (I’ve now named him) out of his hidey hole buy denying him oxygen. Unfortunately for all concerned (me and Pi), I was wearing a mask and snorkel at the time. Nobody and I mean nobody, not even Brad Pitt, looks remotely flattering with a mask and snorkel on. But Pi, bless his little heart, gingerly snaked out one of his many arms in a show of trust and friendship; then he felt flesh (mine) and BAM, back in the shell he went. Now I admit, it had been a few days since I’d seen the inside of a shower, but jeeze, I do swim every day. I couldn’t have tasted that bad. Well I just couldn’t bring myself to hold him out of the water for more than ten seconds so the only thing left to do was wait him out.

Let’s go over some of the pertinent details of the waiting game. I took a year off work (thanks Kurt) and am living on a sailboat. Obviously I don’t really care how long it takes me to get anywhere. If I did, I’d be living on a power boat or in a Winnebago. I had just eaten a nice lunch so was good for another 6 hours as far as needing food goes. The water temperature at the edge of the bay was a balmy 92 degrees so getting cold wasn’t a concern. The only real deterrent to staying in the water for a long time was the mental image I had of that crazy guy from England who locked himself in a ball of water for a week in front of Lincoln Center in NYC. He turned into a prune in about an hour, however, it wasn’t until his doctors told him that his liver and kidneys might shut down that he relented and came out of the ball. By that time, his flesh was so wrinkled that he didn’t look human. What’s the matter with people? That look isn't for me.

Back to the story at hand. Little by little I inched my index finger closer to Pi and little by little he managed to cram himself deeper into that shell until I guess there was just no other place to go. After about ten minutes, Pi extended a tentacle and lightly laid it down on the tip of my finger. All I could think of at the time was “Remain calm, he’s making a move.” What did I do? I yanked my finger back like a big girl and let out a little scream through my snorkel. He, in turn, yanked his tentacle back and this time shut his little eye. About 30 seconds later, he opened it up again, saw the strange man in the snorkel and mask and slammed it back shut. I actually think he was “willing” me away. I’ve tried to do that a bunch of times; it doesn’t work. You open your eyes and the person with bad breath monopolizing your time at a party with tales of economic brawn or work related importance is still right in front of your face. Hell, they might as well have a mask and snorkel on.

Pi’s next attempt at détente came much more quickly. Apparently, the shell was a little cramped and he had had just about enough. This time, his little arm came out and overlapped my finger by about 2 inches. All this time, he was an uninviting shade of brown with little white streaks. Well, let me tell you, right after we made contact, he instantly turned bright white whith blood red streaks, stayed that way for 15 seconds and then gradually went back to the brown. Now that he was back to his old self, he let a few more arms extend out and reached around to the back of the shell. In one fluid movement, he slid his whole body around to the back of the shell and in an instant matched his color to the color of the algae/sea moss and to my amazement, changed the texture of his skin to match the shell’s coating as well. This all happened in less than two seconds. He never made any attempt to swim away from the shell, he just clung to the back and even though I knew he was there, I had to really concentrate on where the shell ended and Pi began.

I reached my hand around to the back of the shell and laid it, palm up, right in front of him. He in turn, immediately shit his pants….no, no, just kidding….he placed two tentacles on my palm and then in less than a minute, he moved off the shell and into my palm. His color changed to a yellowish green and his skin became perfectly smooth again. He was so soft, he felt like velvet. For the next 15 minutes, he just crawled around my hands, from one to the other and then back. He moved about 12 inches up my arm, but then jettisoned himself back to my other hand. All this time, he was changing the color of his skin and the pattern of the color as well.

Eventually, I picked up the conch shell and gently guided him back to the opening. He sat on the edge as I swam him back to his original resting place. As I lowered the shell he slid inside again. I scooped up the white clam and scallop shells and lined them up along the door to the conch condo, took one last look at his little eye and swam back to the boat.

I don’t know why I have this urge to interact with animals. I want so much for them to know that I don’t pose a threat. For some reason, unknown to me, I want them to “know” me and know that I’m a friend. Their complexity is unimaginable. Their consciousness is unquestionable. I am a guest in their home and I guess I want to feel welcome.

I think I’ll have Calamari tonight.